We Have Doors and We Knock On Those Doors
by I'mtheAlphahearmeRoar
Summary: Schmidt really needs to learn how to knock on doors before entering.


**_My first New Girl fic. Of course I decided to slash it up with a good ol' Nick/Schmidt pairing. As the wise words of Nick Miller would say: Hope ya'll enjoy!_**

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><p>Doors. Every room in the apartment had them. And they had <em>locks<em>. Locks that locked every damn door.

Nick did not understand how hard it was to follow that simple instruction.

All you had to do was walk over to your door, lock it, then get back to whatever the hell you were doing with an eased mind of knowing you had complete privacy.

Apparently Schmidt didn't get the logic of the task. (Jess walking in on him doing naked pilates was a nightmare for everyone because let it be known that Jessica Day does not see something life scarring and tell no one.)

It was the exact same thing with knocking.

How hard was it to just rap once on the door before opening it? Was it really that difficult? _Really_, Schmidt? _Was it?_

Guess so.

"Schmidt! Man, are you serious!? I have a door! A _door_, Schmidt! _Knock!_" Nick yells, yanking the blankets up in a quick attempt to cover his dick. Which he'd been... touching. Non-discretely.

Schmidt's eyes bulge impressively (almost impressively as the one Nick's trying to hide from view under the blankets). Typical deer in the headlights. The look freaks Nick out more than the situation at hand (_ha_, at hand…) because a speechless Schmidt is a dangerous Schmidt.

"Wha— Why are you still standing there!? _Go!_"

"I can't. M-My feet—my feet, Nick. They're—my feet are glued to the carpet." Schmidt sounds absolutely terrified. Nick assumes it's less because he's walked in on his best friend jerking off and more because he's "never seen Nick's penis".

Damn it, Schmidt.

Nick sighs, closing his eyes and resisting the urge to strangle his best friend. A feeling one can only experience with someone like Schmidt. "Then tell your feet to magically un-stick themselves from my carpet and get the hell out."

A few seconds go by.

Nick opens his eyes. Groans. Pinches the bridge of his nose.

Schmidt's still standing there. Shuffling his feet.

Well, at least they're not stuck to his carpet anymore right?

Okay. Y'know what. _No_.

"Look, Schmidt, if you're gonna keep standing there I'm—well, I'm just going to keep... doing what I was doing before you put a dent into my happy-Nick-fun-time routine."

Nick at _least_ expects this to get Schmidt to leave.

"Now, Nick, I don't want you to freak out but..." Schmidt's talking like Nick's a delicate flower._ A chubby, damaged flower who hates himse_—No. Nope. Not thinking about it.

"Just spit it out, Schmidt. There's _literally_ nothing you can say to me that will fre—"

"I want to touch you, Nicholas."

It's Schmidt saying his full name in that serious tone which causes the laugh that seizes his whole body, racking through his frame in heavy chuckles.

"Yeah, all right Schmidty. Maybe later," he snickers. Schmidt though, just stares at him. Brown eyes positively melting. Lips pouting. Eyebrows drooping.

The puppy dog look.

Well, _fuck_.

"You're—you can't be—are you _serious?_" he breathes. Schmidt nods slowly. Once. Twice. Hesitantly.

"I just want to put my hands all over you, Nick. My grubby, _dirty_ little hands on that body. And I want t—"

Nick feels his eyebrows—as well as something else—rising.

Schmidt's speech cuts off, chocolate eyes wide and partially glazed as they look down at the blanket that's covering Nick's dick. The blanket that's beginning to resemble a tent. A ship's sail way past half-mast.

Nick considers hitting it. Maybe it will go down. But when he looks up at Schmidt, sees the tragically forlorn look of lust and terror in the man's eyes, he knows that's _never_ going to happen.

"You, uh, want to—touch me now?"

Nick will forever blame his horniness for the words that came out of mouth at that moment.

(Schmidt will always beg to differ.)

Nick sees Schmidt swallow, adam's apple bobbing as he nods nervously.

"Okay, well." He takes a deep breath and pulls the blanket back, leaving his hard dick out in the open. "Do whatever, man."

It's like throwing a dog a freaking bone.

Schmidt's sitting beside him in a full 3 seconds flat, whole body practically vibrating, shaking the bed. He reaches out and _Jesus_, even his _hand_ is trembling in anticipation.

But he's not _doing_ anything.

"Haven't got all day, Schmidt. If you're not gonna 'touch me' then I'll just finish mys—"

The first touches of Schmidt's hand on him are lacking his usual air of confidence. It surprises Nick because the guys is always so boastful and unafraid. This embarrassment that Nick can see him radiating is weeeeird. Seriously. He's like a sun bursting with shy, bashful rays instead of the strong, blinding beams of Schmidt.

"Ngh—ugh, Schmidt. This isn't—working."

"Huh?" Schmidt's movements falter, then cease altogether. Aw, c'mon. The small, light strokes were at least better than _nothing_. "Am I—doing something wrong?"

Nick nods, moving his own hand over Schmidt's to guide him. "Up slowly, down a little bit faster. Also, your wrist. It's too—constricted. It's like your hand's having a seizure. Loosen up, man. Don't force it. Let it flooooow."

Schmidt seems to get it after a few tries of switching angles and changing speed, and soon Nick's being reduced to a panting, sweaty mess, eyes fluttering shut and hips canting up weakly.

"Mmm, s'sogood Schmidty," he groans. Schmidt's hand isn't as tense like before, his grip still tight but his movements less strained, easing Nick through wave after wave of pleasure.

Nick doesn't know how long he lays there, eyes closed and hips rolling up into Schmidt's hand, moaning appreciatively, but eventually the tell-tale signs are beginning to show.

His hips fighting to keep up with Schmidt's strokes, thrusting back and forth in a fast-paced, helpless flurry. His chest heaving, voice reduced to whimpers and embarrassing, high-octave gasps.

"Nicholas, are you going to—" Schmidt's voice is soft. Wavers.

Nick doesn't even need to hear the rest before he feels himself start to come, spurting messily all over his stomach as Schmidt watches on wordlessly, mouth agape and hand still moving.

"Aaah, S-Schmidt, s'enough, ahhaa," he mewls, thighs twitching as Schmidt keeps pumping at his sensitive dick.

"Want to see you milked dry, Nick," Schmidt mutters, aaaaand _there's_ that confidence Nick's so used to. "_Come_ on. Know you can come again. Show Schmidt how pretty you are." But dirty talk was _not_ in the cards.

Schmidt calling him pretty—crooning the word like it means everything to him that Nick comes again—is what does it.

"C'mere—S-S-Schmidt," he chokes. Schmidt doesn't need to be asked twice. Their lips meet the second Nick spasms through another fit of orgasm, Schmidt sucking on his tongue as he yelps and whines into his mouth.

Later, while Schmidt eagerly cleans him up, humming contentedly and licking up the splatters of their combined come off of his skin, Nick realizes just how damn lucky he is that Schmidt doesn't know how to follow rules.

Bless your beautiful incompetence, Schmidt.

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><p><em><strong>(The lock on Nick's door was broken. Heh. Forgot to mention that in the beginning.)<strong>_


End file.
